As I watch your image pulling in the weight
held fast by a rope, see its edges large, heavy-
a fish? A board? -no wait, the covered edges, worn, laden
pages, a book, heavy with weight, made so by
water, how long has it floated
soaking up, all in its wake
we wonder, as we watch you pull the tome just released by the ocean
surf, detritus hugging, then letting loose, you pull on the thick rope,
up and out of the water, slowly and then force it up, onto
rocks, large chunk rip rap, up and over
this last stage of resistance before

your upward trek. And As you begin your walk, up the dirt trail,
Pacific wind blowing your curls and locks (were you barefoot?)

it dawns
on me, the funny thing about memories is
we think they can be stolen, removed, soiled.
But now I see through the clinging dirt, past sea soaked salt
that though they may work to take them away,
rip up your photos, light your written words aflame
with a candle or match, release the ashes to clouds, or drag all you
cherish through mud, dip them in tar, or float them out to sea,

They remain.
Always the same. Tethered by bull kelp arms so strong,
might of presence, tendrils in our minds and beyond them, waving
up over, up high, always waving up to the sun. And then I see

This prompt is clear; distracted by paperwork & taxes this month, to the exclusion of music & writing. Think I’ll pick another month for poems next year, like Haiku March.

**********

#8 Physalia Love

How can I forget? The day we met, all signs
faded in the hot Gulf sun, Peligroso!’s letters dissolved in
the venomous glow. I swam to you, as you surrounded
me, enrapt the moment we touched, my legs & arms made
numb with sensations I’d never felt before they left,
leaving just below the surface of mirth & warmth,
just you & me in this chocolate sea.

Oh how many ways you held me! If
I could count them all, sweet Siphonophore,
opals embedding in tiny tentacles, dangled light to my skin, just
below your majestic sail, that glistening iridescent mast, that
veil submerged- just once, in our sea-green water waltz.

And how you tethered one to many- eloquently, as I swam
through, you- so selflessly giving all, each colony, its own treasured
jewel, each a dance of give & take, all held afloat by one
well-healed hunger, one desire to feed, to move, to gather in tryst
over & over held, then burned in your nematocyst kiss.

Prompt: a poet friend and I challenged each other to retell a terrible life experience, something we couldn’t forget; cast in a positive poetic light. Mine was a run-in with a Portuguese Man-of-War when swimming in the Gulf of Mexico years ago. It was awful; I went into shock and had to be hospitalized. My second degree burns taught me (as a budding then marine biologist), that there are at least 3 types of tentacles on Physalia physalis, each specialized for defense and feeding, each inflicting a different type of wound to hapless prey. The best thing about that experience was that I learned to play drums in the 30 days that I could not sleep, due to the steroid treatments from the burns. Drums became my heart instrument for the next 20 years, ironically. I suppose that should be another poem for the Muses. What did not kill me, made me musical. Haha! 😉

The dog in the house down the street
barks incessantly, and we wonder if it is out of
loneliness since it begins when his owner leaves, like shouting to
fill space, loud enough to fill absence, and keep
yourself company.

Or maybe he his sounding fear, because anything can happen
in emptiness, so he barks in constant tempo to scare away
dread, to fill the house with the might of amplitude, loudness splattered
like paint in giant blasts across the walls.

Or perhaps it is all simple anger, a defiance to tear the house down
altogether, so that nothing stands between the dog and the neighbors, whose faces are knotting up grimaced as we speak. The dog must think it’s a
human kind of snarling.

Either way, the house is an amplifier, presenting his bark in
all directions, first at Loudness-8, Reverb-10 to the apartments next door,
and traveling down the overpass, leveling off to Loudness-7 before hitting
our house and the crossroads that turn it all up, projecting the bark in
two more directions.

I hope the devil is a dog, there, at the crossroads,
kindred kind to negotiate something fair between this maybe-lonely
animal and all these neighbors, pockets filled with anger coins,
ready to ransom a canine soul
for silence.

Vs. 1: 4/11/2018

Taralinda 2018

If it matters to anyone- my numbering system in my post titles now, doesn’t follow the NaPoWriMo prompts anymore, since I have been writing more, ironically. My goal is simply to post as many poems as possible this month; 30 poems in 30 days would be nice. 😉 That said, I did experiment with longer lines for once (Prompt #6), and there is a parallel of perspectives in this piece (Prompt #10).

And speaking of the length of a linebreak in a poem, I just realized in this poem post, that long lines are not supported in the formatting of this blog template; ergh! Although I don’t use them often, I detest being limited by force. Time to look for a new blog template. What are your favorite WordPress templates for writing poetry?

Come Spring, my algal mats were a riot of bubbling pigments
much the way cherry blossoms bloomed in your haiku.

And how can I hold it against you? The courage you held for two.
While I scribbled verses on graph paper, you doodled lips on fish.

Archival dust made us both sneeze.

Tara Linda, c. 2018

NaPoWriMo Prompt #4: to write about an abstraction in a concrete way. This poem is a rewrite of a poem from 7 years ago, about something very abstract: regret. And perhaps a bit of jealousy. It’s one of those pieces that when I first wrote it, began to open a door to a feeling I’d yet to articulate: that I became a scientist instead of a poet. And that somehow, a certain poet I knew was farther ahead and better equipped than I. Revisiting this poem now, this topic, was easier. I felt more like an observer than a participant, I could open the door even wider, filling in more specifics than before. I loved studying science. And poetry! And I have no regrets. I know now that regardless what my path has been, marine science enriched my life. And of course, studying poetry and music in non-traditional ways, has made the poet within stronger and more defiant than ever. I can see now too, what a waste of time it is to compare ourselves to others. Don’t do it!! Thankfully, our paths all differ wildly. We should celebrate this.

Here is one thing I always think but never say aloud…

Haha! If you’ve been a visitor to this blog during past years and April months, you’ll know that I love poetry and this whole April movement toward poetry worldwide. You’ll also know that I mix up prompts from NaPoWriMo, and my own Muses and inspirations.

There is much travel and recording, work projects this month, but No Excuses!!! Haha! Seriously, since poetry is Art, and my goal is to LIVE my art in all ways possible (music, poetry, creating with my hands…), presenting a little bit here shouldn’t be so difficult. Right?! But the truth is, it’s that evil perfectionist that stifles my presentation on this blog- via editing. I write daily, several times so in my journals (would DIE if I couldn’t write). But it’s that ‘polish the draft’ thingy that stifles my posting! Luckily, as I alluded to with the previous post on Rauschenberg’s art, I am suddenly wildly inspired by the messy art journal crowd of late, and have a board started here on Pinterest to celebrate a particular version of poetry journals; where journaling and poetry meet visual art: the visual poetry journal.

And So I will be trying a little harder this month, to leave my critic in the dust, to post as habit, my first and second drafts. I truly appreciate the momentum of this poetry community, and would love to hear on this post- How do You get past your critic to post early drafts, often? The link provided by NaPoWriMo on Fifteen Poets on Revision is insightful.